


The Birder & The Poet

by peachywise



Series: The Birder & The Poet [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris - Freeform, But also a lil angst thrown in there you know how it be, Cute fluffy romance, Follow through the ages, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, No killer clown!, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Stenbrough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 20:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16226633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachywise/pseuds/peachywise
Summary: hi hello i could write some really heartfelt notes but i am so tired but please enjoy and if you would like follow my tumblr at peachywise to keep up with other updates!





	The Birder & The Poet

If you asked Bill when the exact moment was he had begun to fall for Stanley Uris, he would tell you it was the first time Stan ever spoke to him when they were nine years old.

He had never thought much about Stan before then. He was just a kid in his class who had once shh’d the boy who sat beside him during a math quiz. Given their lack of communication, you can imagine how confused Bill was on this fated day when he caught Stan glancing at him on more than one occasion, looking hurriedly down any time they made eye contact. It gave him an unfamiliar fluttering feeling in his stomach every time he did.

Bill didn’t understand it.

He also didn’t quite understand why his heart seemed to feel so weightless when the boy with hair so magically laced with gold approached him and stated ever so factually, “you remind me of a European Goldfinch. They’re my favourite bird,” leaving just as briskly as he had come. Normally Bill would take offense to such a thing. Why compare him to an animal, and a bird of all things? He was a person.

But Stanley had also said it was his favourite bird.

That part, Bill oddly liked.

And so, you’d be damned if you thought Bill didn’t go home that day to ask his father to take him to the library in order to check out any book that so much as mentioned ‘gold’, ‘European’, and ‘finch’ in the title. The librarian had to help him sort of his very scattered search criteria to narrow it down and actually find something useful.

Now, the bird didn’t exceedingly bear any passing resemblance to him. His mother didn’t think so either. Maybe the brunette colour of Bill’s hair was nearly the same shade as the brown feathers, but he had no red or yellow markings! Nor a beak, for that matter. He was very proud that he didn’t have a beak.

But even so, Bill continued to look up as much as he could about the bird, curiosity taking over his entire weekend. He figured if he learned enough about this bird, he might begin to understand why Stan had said he reminded him of it. He wanted to find out if this bird was somehow bad and if this was all some mean prank or joke. However, Bill always kept in mind that Stan had said it was his favourite bird.

Maybe by learning about it, he would also learn a little about the boy he had suddenly grown so fascinated in. His mother suggested since Stan had shared an interest of his with Bill, maybe Bill should share an interest of his with him.

Anything was worth a shot.

So, come that Monday morning, Bill marched up to Stan with such determination on his face, and wordlessly slapped a piece of paper torn out of his notebook on Stan’s desk. And what was on that paper, you might ask? Well, Bill had scrawled out a limerick (his current favourite hobby) in his less than legible adolescent handwriting.

_There once was a boy named Stan_   
_Of the European Goldfinch, he was a fan._   
_The bird reminded him of Bill_   
_But Bill doesn’t understand still_   
_So come on please, and tell him, man!_

Yeah. Bill was no poet, but he got better at writing as he got older. He swears.

Stan took his sweet time reading it, going over the lines five times over, accessing every single detail of the transparently simple poem. He only looked up at Bill after about a solid three minutes of careful inspection.

“You don’t know why you remind me of the bird?”

Bill slapped his knee in sarcastic amusement, as his father often did when he read something painfully obvious in the morning newspaper, or so he had once told him. “I don’t, no!” Bill cried, placing both of his small hands on his desk, leaning down slightly so he became eye level with Stan.

“I-Is it my n-n-nose?”

“No.”

“Is it how I w-walk?”

“No.”

Bill took in a deep breath. No, he knew what this was about. It was what he was worried it was about the whole weekend after not finding another answer. Just another boy making fun of him. It had to be it.

“Is it my s-s-t-tutter?”

Stan’s face quirked up in a look of confusion at his question, and Bill stood up straighter, not expecting such a reaction.

“The European Goldfinch doesn’t stutter,” the boy mentioned oh so matter of factly, “they chirp. It actually has a really nice singing voice.”

A feeling of relief washed over Bill. Most boys and girls in his class had made fun of his stutter at one point. Sometimes more than once and incessantly. To know Stan didn’t care, or at least hadn’t made a joke to him yet about it, gave Bill a feeling of warmth. For some reason he wanted to be accepted by this odd bird boy. There was something about him that was distinctive. Special. Bill just didn’t know what it was at that time.  
   
“So w-what is it?” Bill questioned, unable to stop the small smile that found its way on his face.  
   
“You were wearing a yellow and red shirt, like the bird’s markings.” Pointing up to his hair, Stan also added, “your hair is kinda like it’s brown feathers too.”

Given his adolescent mind, you can’t blame Bill for forgetting about the shirt he was wearing.

Bill felt a little sheepish after coming to that realization, and a heated feeling crawled up to his cheeks. He had fretted over absolutely nothing the entire weekend. It was his shirt all along? Here he thought it was some elaborate prank or mind trick meant to screw him up. His mother was right. His active imagination was going to get him into some serious trouble one day.

“Oh,” Bill stated.

“Yeah,” Stan replied.

Trying to diffuse the awkwardness he felt, Bill blurted out the first question that came to mind, “why is it your favourite bird?”

It was Stan’s turn to blush as he self-consciously shifted in his seat, fiddling with his hands as he shuffled his feet. “I don’t know,” he shrugged, staring at his lap as he continued to mumble, “I guess I just think they’re pretty.”

If you haven’t noticed the pattern yet, Bill was still too oblivious to realize why hearing that statement made him inexplicably happy. So instead of standing there like an idiot with a grin on his face, he nodded in return, stating proudly, “I think they are too,” before returning to his own desk and seat.

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello i could write some really heartfelt notes but i am so tired but please enjoy and if you would like follow my tumblr at peachywise to keep up with other updates!


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